


Asymptomatic

by loveinamaltshop



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Angsty Pete, Because Patrick is an angry teenager, Blow Jobs, Falling Out of Love, Growing Up, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Violence, Past Drug Use, So in effect, Soul Punk Era Patrick Stump, Touring, Van Days, pete centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 11:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14135169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinamaltshop/pseuds/loveinamaltshop
Summary: Both their chests are heaving and Patrick smiles up at him. He’s uncorrupted eyes and Sunday morning smiles. It makes Pete want to cry right then.“It’s ‘later,’” Pete murmurs, testing his luck.“I did promise,” Patrick says. His voice is flat. It’s unsettling in a way Pete can’t exactly identify.In every connotation of the word, Patrick breaks Pete.





	Asymptomatic

It’s in Buttfuck, Iowa when Patrick snaps for the first time before Pete.

They’re pumping gas into the van and Pete is stretching right next to Patrick, making a show of pulling his elbows over his head and attempting to throw a leg onto the side of the van. It’s too hot that July and Pete bouncing around is hardly the smartest idea.

Pete’s nerves are replaced with electricity, needing to throw off the energy somehow and Patrick just happened to be the closest living thing. Obnoxiously, he hums a shitty bassline that makes Patrick visibly flinch.  _ Well, sorry, prodigy _ , Pete thinks,  _ the rest of us can only try. _ He hums louder, hands and arms in an exaggerated air guitar. He can see Joe, shiny forehead and matted curls, nervously peering from where he’s holding the gas pump. Andy’s probably chosen to shut up inside the driver’s seat, which is  _ perfect.  _ Joe looks at him pointedly, more begging than commanding, which is probably what he was going for. Pete grins back, all teeth and malice.

Oh, he’s heard all about pissed off Patrick. Stories of throwing things around and even throwing a  _ fist  _ through a snare. He’s been granted sneak previews in the van, blind viciousness and staccato fists slugged against his arm. He’s really a drummer, Pete had thought, even his violence had rhythm.

Predictably, curiosity gets the best of him.

Patrick is snarling at Pete, as he continues to air guitar. Pete goes in for the kill, sticking his sweaty t-shirt back against Patrick’s sweaty t-shirt back, eliciting a “gross, dude!” Success. Pete continues singing his stupid bass line, making it sound like something straight out of a 70s porno and leans, grinding his back against Patrick’s. Patrick stiffens behind him and growls. He walks away and causes Pete to fall right on his ass.

First off,  _ ow,  _ the ground was hot concrete that he could feel immediately scraped his hands bloody. He was going to be pissed if it fucked up his playing. Second of all, how fucking rude. 

Pete reaches over to grab Patrick’s ankle, and pulls. Patrick falls onto the rough ground with him. For a second, he does get to see the fabled rage. It isn’t steam coming out of his ears or the whites of his eyes shifting to red. It’s a little, lame if Pete’s being completely honest.

It’s tiny Patrick scrambling on his feet for just a second before he falls again, knees crashing. His hands land on Pete’s chest. There’s a growl, and  _ oh wow,  _ hello unexpected twitch in his pants. He ignores it in favor of white fists balling up the front of his t-shirt. The hands shakily lift Pete up once, and slam his shoulders onto the ground. Up once, then down again, harder. 

Pete winces, thankful he kept his head lifted to look at Patrick. Patrick, who is red and dripping with sweat in the face. 

“You’re such a fucking  _ freak,” _ he shouted, throwing a fist at Pete’s arm. 

_ Not the first time I’ve heard that before,  _ but Pete is laughing too loudly, mean-spirited and almost mocking. The sound causes Patrick to frown, nostrils flaring and jaw clenching. 

Another flurry of fists to meet him all over: against his chest, shoulders, and arms. Patrick is way too uncoordinated, messy swinging, but he can feel some of them are going to bruise pretty badly. His bottom lip is under his teeth, before his fist rams down on Pete’s bicep: a crude finishing move. 

“Guys, the tank’s already filled up,” Joe calls out pathetically, hands limp at his sides. He’s standing his ground because he’s smart not to intervene. Pete can admire that.

“Let them be,” Pete hears Andy say, while Patrick’s hands on the front of his shirt are still shaking, still restless to do something “I need them exhausted. We have another three hours to the next stop.”

“They’re gonna smell so gross,” Joe whines, but he hops into the passenger seat. 

“Could you not be a total spaz?” Patrick says, fists tight and pulling on Pete’s shirt, and they both hear it stretch. He’s a rubber band ball, slowly snapping bit by bit. “God, I fucking hate you.”

“You don’t mean that,” Pete pouts, because Patrick is seventeen and he’ll say a lot of things. 

Next thing Pete knew, he was going to go on about how much he liked girls or whatever. Which would be fair because Patrick’s only had one known girlfriend but come on. They’ve all had “that one girlfriend.”

“You’re so fucked in the head,” Patrick growls again, that noise again, and it’s distracting enough that Pete barely registers Patrick smacking the side of his head  _ (hard)  _ as if this demonstrates his point before he stands up. He dusts himself off. Pete coughs at the dust that attacks his senses.

He flexes his fingers, wincing. He’ll be able to play, but just not as well. He feels the bruises blooming against his skin and assesses in his head if it was worth it. 

His mind flashes back to Patrick biting down his bottom lip on top of him, the noises he made, and the anger in his voice. Definitely saving that for his next gas station bathroom session.

_ Worth it,  _ he decides as he’s sitting beside a cross-armed Patrick in the back of the van. He grins over at him, mumbling a quiet “love you, Patty” and means it. Kid’s everything to him. 

Patrick ignores him. Pete catches Andy glancing at the rearview mirror and decides nah. Maybe he’ll get back to being a little shit after their gig. 

* * *

It’s years later and they’re playing bigger venues and signing body parts and getting paid with  _ not beer.  _

They can afford two rooms now in actual hotels, and Pete can ride out his post-show highs with only one other voice grumbling at it. It’s Patrick, usually, and it’s Patrick tonight. 

Patrick’s back is pressed against the headboard of the bed he’s sitting in, reading. His legs are under the pristine white comforter. He’s fresh and clean from the shower, wearing soft and worn clothing and a towel around his shoulders. Pete thinks he looks way too young again, but he’s always been way too young. Even though this kid, his  _ golden ticket,  _ just played and sang his fucking heart out like a real rockstar, he’s curled up under sheets and reading. Like some fucking nerd. 

Pete’s finished with his shower and slipped on a clean pair of boxers when he sees Patrick like that. God, they should be out, doing lines or something. Wreaking havoc. The thought of Patrick doing lines though—that at makes him giggle to himself. Patrick doesn’t look up. 

He does, however, when Pete slides onto his stomach from the foot of the bed. His face meets the side of Patrick’s thigh. He grins up.

“Get off,” Patrick says dryly “You’re wet.”

“No, I’m not,” Pete replies and shakes his wet hair wildly. Water droplets scatter, causing Patrick to hiss, pulling his book away to safety. 

“Pete, not tonight.”

There’s something in Patrick’s voice that Pete doesn’t recognize. He knows the tired in his voice but now, he’s never heard this degree of resignation. Not even when they’d play shitty sets and the crowds would boo them off the stage. 

“What’s up?” Pete says and the sincerity is enough to catch Patrick off guard. He actually puts his book down, slides down the headboard and onto the pillows.

“Um,” Patrick pushes his glasses up, barely reacting when Pete grabs his hand “Anna broke up with me.”

Pete stifles a snort. He figured. Probably cheated on Patrick, too.

“She has a guy back home.” 

Well, there you have it. Pete stays silent where his thumb is rubbing over Patrick’s knuckles. He offers a quiet “what a bitch.” There’s no anger or viciousness, but it’s a supplement that feels necessary. Guy code.

“It’s whatever,” Patrick mumbles, hand leaving Pete’s to scratch at the side of his face. In the dead quiet, Pete can hear the soft  _ scritch scritch.  _

“It’s not whatever, dude.” Pete says, moving up to sit back on Patrick’s thighs. Patrick groans at his weight, but doesn’t fight him off “You should be pissed.”

Patrick stares at him. Pete’s never noticed the gold around his pupils. He does now. “What do you expect me to do? God, it’s like—fuck. I’m gonna die alone.”

He sounds so exhausted that Pete’s fist clenches. He knows most of it is from the show, but he’s been around Patrick long enough. He’s used to listening to Patrick’s self-deprecating bullshit, too, so this shouldn’t be nothing new. But, right now, more than anything, he wants to tell him Anna was just some girl. Patrick could get another one in a heartbeat—he was in a band, for fuck’s sake. The lead singer, no less. Patrick was a dumbass if he thought Anna was the only girl, only  _ person,  _ in the world who would want him.

Patrick’s still looking at Pete expectantly. Pete frowns back at him before he lays the planes of his body on top of Patrick’s torso. Even through the thick comforter, the places where he’s soft and hard everywhere is a familiar place to be in. Pete can feel Patrick’s unjustly broken heart thrumming along his.

“Shut the fuck up. Be  _ my  _ fucking boyfriend,” Pete declares, chin atop Patrick’s chest “I’ll be your rebound, Stump.”

Something reminiscent to horror flashes across Patrick’s face. Pete’s heart falls for a second. To be fair, he didn’t know what to expect. Things come out of his mouth before his mind catches up and that’s how it’s always been. There have been a limited number of times when he’s regretted the consequences of his words and actions and he refuses this to add to that. Especially not with Patrick. 

“Um,” he says again, and two fingers rub harshly at his eyelid “I’m really bummed right now, okay? It’d be cool if you just listened.”

“I am,” Pete protests, but his voice cracks and it pisses him off because he does fucking mean it “God, Patrick, I’m not a total fucking asshole.”

“Then what’s with this rebound bullshit?” Patrick asks, pushing at Pete, no fire at all. There’s too little fabric on Pete right now and he grits his teeth when the front of his boxers catch where Patrick’s thigh is under the covers. He hopes the layers of sheets between them help conceal how he’s half hard like some teenage virgin.

Pete frowns at him. He lets his arms lift himself up just to crash back down onto Patrick. His hands move to take off Patrick’s glasses, seeing all the blues and golds under his half-lidded eyes. This idiot. Patrick must be so fucking tired because he doesn’t protest, doesn’t smack Pete’s hand like he would. He stares at Pete. His gaze could mean anything, but it translates as a challenge for Pete, whose elbows move to press down onto either one of Patrick’s shoulders. 

“God,” Pete breathes out against Patrick’s cheek. His wrists tremble and he’s nervous. He kills it with how he’s always gotten over it: impulse.

Patrick must have gotten the message somewhere along the way because he doesn’t protest when Pete kisses him. Patrick is all softness and hotel room Sprite. He kisses back with twice as much fervor, which does surprise Pete. Pete can taste desperation where he sucks on the thick bottom lip he’s only dreamt about getting  _ this _ close to.

He has his hands carding through Patrick’s hair, massaging his scalp. Patrick exhales into his mouth and it hits Pete that Patrick’s been holding his breath since their lips met. Pete smirks against Patrick’s open mouth. He’s literal poetry and he doesn’t even realize it. 

Pete keeps kissing him, knees finding either side of Patrick’s hips. His back bows as his tongue enters Patrick’s, licking into it as if he’s candy. Patrick makes the softest of whines and Pete’s hands move to sink over the front of Patrick’s shirt. He pulls him closer, kisses him hungrier. 

Goosebumps prickle over his skin when Patrick retaliates by licking back into his tongue. Okay, fair. They’re hardly kissing at this point, all tongue and teeth scraping at the other’s mouth, but Pete feels himself hard, heavy and straining under his boxers. God, he really was a stupid, horny teenager. At least when it came to Patrick, the single exception to all his principles. His teeth suck on the perfection that is Patrick’s bottom lip one last time before his mouth moves down his jaw, over his neck.

“Were you waiting to do something like this?” Patrick says as if it’s obvious, and because it is. He’s panting softly, staring at the ceiling. It isn’t fair that he’s hot when he’s trying not to be. 

Pete doesn’t answer. In lieu of any pride-lowering affirmation, he tugs the collar of Patrick’s shirt and sucks low on his throat. Sucks hard, like he’s meant to do this. Patrick moans and Pete thinks,  _ that’s going on the next record.  _

There’s a pair of warm hands that grab either side of Pete’s hips. Thumb lock over hip bones like they were meant to be there, extensions of him. Pete shivers. He can’t help it, no one’s ever held him like this. But then Patrick grinds up and Pete’s fingers dig into Patrick’s scalp, he decides Patrick’s meant to, for sure. And that’s a thought that makes his throat close up so tight that he has to consciously start breathing.

The thing is, Pete doesn’t even realize he’d been waiting. He doesn’t realize he’d been holding his breath, too. He doesn’t realize something tugs him closer to Patrick in every time he’s had his hands around his neck or an arm thrown around his shoulder or a lyric they  _ finally  _ agree on. Maybe he is in love, maybe it’s something crazier. It’s not something that he’s felt with other girls, or the couple of guys he’s been with. He doesn’t want to know what it is. 

Patrick just decided to exist in his life and Pete just decided to love him. 

Pete’s breathing too loudly through his nose where he’s licking over a trail of hickeys he’s left on Patrick, the world outside their suite be damned. He pulls away, looks at Patrick. He stares at the glassy eyes, porcelain blue and pupils blown. Pete wants to make him feel everything. 

He tugs the sheets off Patrick. He’s wearing a pair of light blue sleep shorts that are riding too high on his thigh. Patrick is too pale everywhere, inciting impulses deep within Pete—to mark him, to leave bruises, to make Patrick remember. He settles for putting his forearms on either side of Patrick’s face, aligning his hips against Patrick’s.

He moves into kissing Patrick, his gentle open mouth that meets a low, low groan. It’s the match that burns Pete’s kerosene body. Their cocks align with one another and Patrick’s kissing him again. He’s making all sorts of noises when Pete’s grinding down. God, Pete wishes they’d done this so much sooner. All the nights they had motel rooms or the van alone together when Joe and Andy were doing 7-Eleven runs years ago. The songwriting sessions in Patrick’s basement or Pete’s apartment. The moments packing up after recording. 

And then Patrick rolls his hips in a way that’s too good, and Pete decides it makes up for all of it. 

“I don’t want this to be just right now,” Pete finds himself admitting, because of course he has to ruin good things.

Patrick’s eyes shoot open, as he’s red in the mouth and face and hopefully everywhere else. “Pete.”

The single syllable of his name makes his hips slow down. His face falls, pensive, as his lip skim against Patrick’s in a cruelly gentle way. He reminds himself they have time. He needs to get Patrick and himself off, and heavily doubts Patrick is going to push him off  _ now. _

“Later?” Patrick says, eyes closing again, as if he hears Pete’s heart break “Promise.”

“Promise?” comes roughly out of Pete, who’s cupping Patrick over his shorts now. He isn’t wearing any underwear. 

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

A stupid grin splits across Pete’s face and his dry hand moves inside Patrick’s shorts. It’s too dry, he can tell by the way Patrick flinches but there are encouraging spurts of pre-come soon enough that let him slick the length of Patrick’s dick. He kisses Patrick again, nipping and licking as he’s jacking Patrick off. He’s rewarded with a whine that shouldn’t be so hot emitted by a dude but Patrick’s always been full of surprises.

“Blow me,” Patrick says. Pete nearly comes from the roughness of it.

He pulls his hand out of Patrick’s shorts, crawling as carefully as possible to kneel on the side of Patrick’s legs. Pete rucks up his shirt running his fingers over the trail of hair down to his shorts. Pete shoves them down, watches Patrick’s flushed-red dick bob up, onto his stomach. As he’s settling between Patrick’s legs, there’s also a visual confirmation that Patrick isn’t completely strawberry blonde all over. 

He celebrates this fact by wrapping his lips around the head. His hand fists at his dick, and at the sound of Patrick crying out his name, he wonders exactly how long it’s been since he last got any action. There’s a hand trailing up and down his scalp. He feels nails scrape gently up, down onto his neck before they grab up onto his hair.  _ Too long, apparently,  _ Pete decides. The hand on Patrick’s dick moves away in favor of petting the side of Patrick’s thigh, tracing figure eights on his thigh. 

Pete sinks lower, savoring the taste of Patrick. He’s running the head over the roof of his mouth, bobbing his head while his tongue laps at the thick vein and it’s everything Pete’s fantasized about in motel bathrooms and the sanctuary of his bedroom back home. He sucks harder, moaning around it, letting Patrick’s hands pull at his hair. 

“You’re too fucking good at this, you know that?” Patrick rasps, looking straight down at him.

It causes Pete’s hips to nearly-involuntarily rut at the mattress. He’s searching for friction, but he wants to show off. The ring of his mouth tightens, the spit sliding out of his mouth quickening his movements. Patrick’s hips buck up into him. The head meets the soft back of his mouth, meets his throat at the second, third, fourth time Patrick fucks into his mouth. 

The last time he blew someone is decidedly too long because he has zero gauge on his gag reflex. He’s here to please, though. He keeps swallowing around Patrick, letting him fuck his mouth when he wants to. His eyes are watering, tears falling onto Patrick’s skin. Honestly, it’s everything logged in his spank bank and more.

Patrick’s breathing is ragged, labored. The word  _ promise  _ dances somewhere in the back of Pete’s head and he doubles his efforts. Stops showing off, mouth purposeful in the way he’s letting his eyes water and his throat close. His hand moves over to Patrick’s balls, gentle in the way he fondles them. He pulls off, eliciting a growl  _ (there it was)  _ that makes him laugh before he can stop himself. He spits, dirty and shameless on the length of Patrick’s dick, and strokes him fast.

“Come on, dude,” Pete says, throat raw. He’s not desperate, he’s really not. He just wants Patrick to finish and come and talk about his stupid feelings. Then they could go to sleep together, cuddle even, and surprise Joe and Andy at the breakfast buffet, with hands wound around the other’s or some shit. He could see it, the knowing looks they’d throw each other. Joe flipping his shit and Andy giving an abridged  _ don’t fuck this up _ speech he’s been saving in his back pocket. He’d kiss Patrick’s neck on stage and it would mean something. 

Hot streaks of come cover his hand, his chest, Patrick’s own stomach. He lowers the same hand to jerk himself off, because Patrick’s red in the face. He shudders at the feeling of Patrick’s come sliding across his dick, fucking his fist hard. It doesn’t take long for him either, palm falling flat on Patrick’s soft stomach and eyes locked on the marks barely visible under Patrick’s collar. 

He spills into his boxers, Patrick’s name breathy and needy, a way he’s never said it before, on his lips. 

His body hits the top of Patrick’s. Both their chests are heaving and Patrick smiles up at him. He’s uncorrupted eyes and Sunday morning smiles. It makes Pete want to cry right then. 

“It’s ‘later,’” Pete murmurs, testing his luck. 

“I did promise,” Patrick says. His voice is flat. It’s unsettling in a way Pete can’t exactly identify. 

So he stares and stares. A tired yawn crosses Patrick’s face before he does say anything.

“We should sleep.”

“You said later,” Pete says, unabashedly petulant. He’s crossed enough lines to let his dignity wane. 

“It’s—” Patrick looks over at the digital clock on the nightstand “two in the morning. I’m tired. Please?”

“Promise,” Pete mocks, voice high and irritating. He knows it’s the wrong move. It’s enough to push a button in Patrick. 

“Look,” Patrick’s voice is tight and stifling any anger that could possibly slip out “You. You’re a lot to process, you know that, right? And I just went through a breakup. Over the  _ phone.” _

_ So?  _ Pete wants to say  _ I’ve had breakups I didn’t even know about.  _ Catching an ex’s tongue down some scene kid’s on MySpace comes to mind. It wasn’t even the _ first _ thing that came to mind. 

“Can you please let me sleep it off?” 

Something in Pete wants to throw a fist. Make it really, really hurt that Patrick bites his tongue till it bleeds. Pin him to the ground and throw punches, like Patrick did when he was a stupid teenager. He catalogs these thoughts away, remembers to breathe and be aware of the situation. He’s in control, he’s supposed to be. If only the kid knew how much he pissed him off, too.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick murmurs, hand gentle above the skin on Pete’s shoulder “But morning, okay? I’m so tired. And it’s still technically later, so I’m not breaking promises.”

Defensive is a word Pete likes to use to describe Patrick. In key changes, Elvis Costello, and even his fucking McDonald’s order. Patrick would probably get through law school on indignation alone. Pete could choose to argue, but it would end up taking up all night. He could have gone to sleep knowing Patrick was his boyfriend or something, but not-cranky Patrick is an okay compromise. He’ll take what he can get. 

“Morning,” Pete says, as he burrows himself against Patrick’s side. Throws an arms around his waist and ignores come-sticky boxers. That’s morning Pete’s problem now. He sleeps like a baby.

The thing is, Patrick breaks his promise, slipping away from Pete around eight in the morning to shower. Pete had stirred awake, basking in the smell of Patrick and the feel high thread count sheets. Thoughts of  _ promise  _ and  _ morning _ drift away. This is good, too. 

He wakes up, finally. His bag is gone, and so is Patrick’s. He panics before he sees hoodie and a pair of jeans on the bed that’s supposed to be his, along with a note on the hotel notepad. 

_ Didn’t want to wake you. We’re downstairs.  _

He meets Patrick and the rest of the guys in the lobby,  the latter snarling at him. 

“Were you out last night?” Joe asks, but it’s more curious than chastising.

Pete plasters a suggestive grin and a quick, jerky nod of his head because it’s easier. 

Joe waggles his eyebrows, any hint of annoyance melting away.

Patrick’s not making eye contact. Of course he isn’t. He’s always been a shitty liar. Of course he keeps quiet the whole time too, not wanting to be questioned for Pete’s supposed behavior. 

Pete still decides he loves the guy who left him in bed that morning, who looks and sounds too much like Patrick, and avoids his eyes too. Because he loves him, he’s so sure of it, more than he’s ever been about his songwriting or this band or anyone who’s ever made him feel anything. 

They head to the bus. Patrick doesn’t talk to him there, either.

It’s uncharacteristic and a crawling feeling inside Pete decides he doesn’t know him that well. It scares him more than anything. He would die for this boy, the one person in his life he’s so sure of.

The dread throws another corpse in the back of his head, rots there, and the smell stays.

* * *

Pete drives up to Sacramento.

At his side, his phone is open. There’s a single text between him and Patrick. It’s a venue and time signed with a  _ take the performer’s entrance. _

They’ve been doing this since they decided to take the break. If the other was performing nearby, they’d hang around and grab a few drinks with Joe and Andy or Joe or Andy. The entire dynamic changes. It reworks Pete’s insides, rewires his brain. 

His new band doesn’t tolerate his shit and Pete’s begrudgingly had to learn how to shut his mouth. It’s restless energy at first that’s released through jacking off in his hotel rooms that he actually gets for himself before that same energy crackles and hardens, heavy and low on his gut. It’s a cycle. It was pills to calm him down and numb then it was pills to fix him when he thought popping another one or two would make the world quieter. He learns the hard way that quantity was never the way to go.

He’s thankful for their tiny reunions. He’s glad they stray away from discussing things like music and are just some guys who used to be in a band together, passing out draft beers at the nearest bar. Joe and Andy would retell stupid shit they did back in the day. Gas station fights and legendary farts. There’s a twinkle of nostalgia in their eyes that Pete doesn’t dare make him wistful so he would often decide to complain how shitty the beer is instead. No time like the present. Patrick would as animatedly as they do, all blond hair and leather jackets. More of a man now in a pretty boy’s body. Slender and feminine. He doesn’t find the boy who once beat the shit out of him for pissing in his hat in Patrick at all. 

There’s a parking spot a block away from the bar, which is a miracle because Patrick’s probably halfway through his set. He takes the entrance that he finds at the side of the building, smiles at the security that almost automatically lets him in. 

Pete wishes he could join the crowd where he watches, body pressed against the doorframe of the dressing room from the darkened edge of the venue. The entire place is alive, electric. He doesn’t see a lot of people singing along, something bitter in his mouth. It’s nothing like their gigs where punk kids or teenage girls in arm warmers would shout the lyrics to their songs so badly it almost always threw them off. 

Here is Patrick under a burning spotlight, in his  _ element.  _ Pete always knew Patrick couldn’t dance for shit, the Midwestern white boy in him, but there was something charming about his movements, all jazz and electric. He was gorgeous to look at on stage, bright blue suit fitting everywhere just right. He was confident and happy. It was so goddamn beautiful to witness and Pete didn’t recognize him. 

The set ends and Patrick jogs towards his direction, passing his guitar to a stage hand and catches Pete’s eye. There’s a grin so wide that Patrick’s eyes disappear. 

They exchange enthusiastic, genuine “hey!” and “you were amazing up there!” Patrick’s tiny form practically jumps onto Pete. He almost hits the security that let Pete in, who pats his back and moves to the stage to help carry away amps. Pete closes his eyes, feeling Patrick’s sweat stick to his cheek where he has it buried into his neck. This is familiar. This is good. Patrick’s sharp-smelling cologne invades his senses and the primal part of him is trying to find musk and boy. He tries to love this boy again.

“I am so gross right now, I’m sorry about that,” Patrick says, laughing. 

Pete shakes his head. “You’re fine,” he laughs “Do you want to grab a drink or something now?” 

“Yeah, let me just change out of this,” Patrick smiles sheepishly, walking into the dressing room “You can hang back. There’s some water and like, chips if you’re hungry.”

Pete follows inside, watching Patrick’s back where he sees the worst of the damage. There’s a continent of sweat right through the suit jacket. He opts for the water, coming down warm. 

“How was your drive over?” Patrick asks, looking back at Pete through the mirror he’s facing. 

“A pain in the ass,” Pete admits with a snarl, which elicits a laugh from both of them “Next time you’re thinking of doing a gig, do it in the comfort of my home.”

“I can’t say I’m cheap to book, though,” Patrick teases and Pete feels too old to crack a dirty joke. He laughs, though. 

Patrick is looking at him. Uneasy smile that Pete can’t read. He tugs off his bowtie, nice and silk and sophisticated, tossed haphazardly onto the soaked linen jacket. He’s still looking at Pete, who shifts on the couch. There’s an image he’s seen before: heaving of a chest paired with a red and open mouth.

“Sucks that Andy and Joe couldn’t make it,” Pete says, but his voice doesn’t carry. It’s a stupid statement since they both know they’re somewhere in the East Coast right now. 

“Sucks,” Patrick supplies, tugging the leather gloves off. 

Pete decides he hates the air around them. He tries to figure out why it’s so thick when this guy’s supposed to be his best friend. Patrick doesn’t seem to take notice. He runs his hands through his hair, a dry, fake glowing halo against the fluorescent lights. It hasn’t grown on Pete just yet. 

It’s when Patrick’s thumbing the buttons on his shirt when he has Pete’s undivided attention. His tongue wets his lips deliberately as if he’s going to say something but nothing comes out. It hits Pete belatedly that nothing was going to come out. Anything that he was supposed to say comes in the form of smart fingers and dark eyes. 

Patrick untucks his shirt, looking over his shoulder now, at Pete. There’s a flash of something young. Patrick’s suddenly in the the van’s passenger seat with an amp on Pete’s lap, threatening to bash his skull with Joe’s guitar. Only this time, his eyes are earnest. Hinting at longing just like the gold flecks Pete saw in them years ago. 

“If you’re going to do something, you can do it now,” Patrick says. It’s all confidence and Pete can’t decide if it’s real or not. If this is even Patrick or not. If he’s dreaming or not. 

Pete’s mouth drops. Patrick’s looking at him through the mirror again, but his hands fidgeting at his cuffs to roll up his sleeve tell a different story. 

Pete’s yearned for this. Thought about the taste of the inside of Patrick’s mouth and counted the bruises he’d ever left on him. Wrote fucking songs about it that he’s made Patrick learn and for millions to hear. Fucked girls with red hair and plush mouths on their hands and knees.

But Patrick is looking at him and he wants to do nothing more than to stand up, leave, drive until he crosses the state line. Until he never has to see Patrick again and until Patrick forgets about him too. There’s a scream that’s trapped in Pete’s chest, weighing him down. 

He doesn’t remember if he loves this boy the same way anymore. 

He remembers a hotel room and a writhing body underneath him. Check out times and lies. Thinking the word love, but never saying it. He wants to forget that boy. He wants this one to forget, too. Luckily, he’s figured it out years before just how to.

He moves towards the stranger, turning him by the belt loops. Pete kisses him stupid, and lets Patrick fuck him over the couch eventually. He stays quiet, lets Patrick spread him open and take him. He has no idea where Patrick learned how to talk like  _ that  _ or to move his hips tirelessly and it’s good enough to make moans bubble out of him. He says nothing when Patrick gets off too quick, panting and spreads his legs to welcome the other’s hand that jerks him off. 

He takes it as a good sign when it leaves the conversation afterwards stilted. Any plan of a drink evaporates like the sweat on the back of their necks.

“I’ll text you,” Patrick grins, a little forced, once he’s in a new pair of jeans and a gray henley. 

Pete’s a little jealous, his own clothes sweat-soaked and heady with the smell of sex. But what else was new. He mirrors the smile. “Yeah, man.”

They hug, still tight and warm as ever with whispered goodbyes on shoulders. 

He catches Patrick’s eyes on the way out and wonders if he yearned too. The way Pete did, and always does—hopeless. He hopes for Patrick’s sake it’s not as fleeting.

Pete wonders when he’s in his car, if he’s ever going to be sure about anything else in his life again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments make my day! Feel free to drop by my Tumblr, [loveinamaltshop](https://loveinamaltshop.tumblr.com/), as well.


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